


bitter

by orphan_account



Category: Red Queen Series - Victoria Aveyard, The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Elara KWEEN is being evil as always mWAH, F/F, F/M, I think all the canon relationships are intact, If you didn't know you wanted this, M/M, Maven and Fem Darkling are both evil babies, Maven has a cat named Leash, The Darkling is here and she is perfect, this is supposed to be dark academia au btw, you wanted this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:34:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25737355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: I have little to no idea what I'm doing. I like evil babies so I'm giving them the justice the writers refused to. I am done with my faves being done dirty so here is a fic of them going all out, ruining lives, butchering hoes, smooching, and fucking. A huge YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE HAW to those who encouraged me to do this. Your support has been most fruitful.
Relationships: Elane Haven/Evangeline Samos, Mare Barrow/Tiberias "Cal" Calore VII, Maven Calore/ Aleksandra Morozova, Maven Calore/ The Darkling
Comments: 6
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have little to no idea what I'm doing. I like evil babies so I'm giving them the justice the writers refused to. I am done with my faves being done dirty so here is a fic of them going all out, ruining lives, butchering hoes, smooching, and fucking. A huge YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE HAW to those who encouraged me to do this. Your support has been most fruitful.

Maven’s fondness for alcohol had ceased to exist before it could. For the first time, at the tender age of seven, the bitterness had coated his tongue, not at all deserving of the many hyperbolic epithets those near him had a tendency to bestow it. Ever since the scent alone could provoke him to leave the room or empty his stomach before someone’s feet. 

It was a wonder he had survived this meeting with his bowels properly arranged, his stomach undisturbed. Though it certainly helped that the bottle of pills tucked neatly in his brown satchel bag was within his reach. He could reach for it, smile pleasantly at his companions, and pretend that the object for consumption was gum and not medicine. 

Humans were so curiously afraid of medicine in the possession of a mentally ill person. It seemed that, even when the truth was cloaked in superficial charm and kindness, they were subconsciously aware of the beast tittering in delight underneath. Maven was immune to their fear. Not so much to his. 

“Is it such a sin to imagine that one could exceed the boundaries of skin and become…” Evangeline said, drunk beyond her capacity to handle. Equally drunk, her girlfriend Elaine leaned her head on her shoulder, one of the braids coming loose. “Become something greater.” 

“Do express yourself more clearly, Evangeline.” Maven urged, rubbing circles around the buttons of his hickory brown coat. “All of us gathered here already exceed one boundary or another.” 

“Some of us more than others.” Chipped Mare from the couch, her arms hanging like lead at her sides. Her brown hair, silky and voluminous, framed her lovely face. Her brown eyes watched, and they understood the meaning behind his gaze. “You know you won’t exceed _that_ boundary. One of us will have to go down. It won’t be me, Maven.” 

He raised a brow, not impressed, threatened, or offended in the slightest. Since early childhood, the two of them had had an unsteady, slightly treacherous friendship which in adulthood gave way to a tincture of lust and greed. They coveted what the other had so badly that at times, when the present became blurry and the past too clear, they did not know if it was each other they craved. 

It did not help that he was a psychology assistant professor at Harvard, having finished college early, and they were still students. Not that he intended to end his relations with any of those present in the candlelit room. His brother, Cal, would see to it that Maven was stable, under his healthy control, sociable so that society would not unearth Maven’s hatred for it. 

Ptolemus would breathe down his neck, drag him to these dreadful meet-ups where the company was quiet, philosophical, made a dozen times worse by the odor of alcohol in the cramped space. He knew they meant well, but their understanding of a healthy mind contradicted Maven’s. And no matter their valiant efforts to sway him from the path of no return, Maven would crawl back to it even in his clearest state of mind. 

“You are not going to leave,” Ptolemus said in a serious, menacing voice that inspired nothing in Maven but a tickle of annoyance. “Cal has missed you.” 

“So I am present..” Maven said simply. “He has seen I am well, stable, healthy beyond human capability. Are you not content, brother?” 

Cal, barely coherent at this point, smiled broadly. “You are a good boy, Maven. We love you, Maven.” 

“Alright, that’s enough.” Maven said, rising from his seat and grabbing his bag. He doesn’t bother properly saying goodnight to anyone but Cal whose hand he holds for a few moments before letting go and heading for the door. “May your minds not shatter.” 

  
  
  


His first memory was of rain and smoke. He had been sitting by the window, his plushie duck in his hands, watching the rain plunder the warmth from the garden. His mother had been sitting with him, trying to get him to snap out of his childish reverie. Elara had demanded in that deathly calm and luxurious tone of hers that he rise from the floor and walk. 

When he had looked up at her, confused and mesmerized, she had slapped him, grabbed him by the armpits, and forced him to stand. A futile thing to do, for he had dropped to the floor and landed on his ass. That was the first time Maven had cried. It was his last memory of doing so. 

To this day, Maven owed her his gratitude, but all he had managed to deliver was a silent manner of respect. 

He turned to the papers he had to grade, all of them dreadful, horribly composed, the guidelines he had provided them with utterly disregarded. He enjoyed failing each and everyone of them. They put no work into his course, he would include no compassion or pity into his grading. 

“Why is every single piece of flesh in my lecture hall an utter fucking idiot?” Maven muttered, flicking his cigarette in the ashtray. “Over a hundred brains and none of them functional.” 

Maven absentmindedly touched the hair at the back of his neck, a sense of relaxation washing over him like the shower he had taken upon his return home. He touched his chest, the firm planes of his stomach, a sudden rush of energy urging him to rest his hand beneath his royal blue bathrobe. And he would have, if not for his cat, Leash, leaping on his lap. 

“Most inopportune.” He sighed but didn’t nudge the cat off his lap. “Fine, then. Ruin my moment of relief.” 

Then, near the pile of assignments, he noticed the file professor Julian Jacos had promised to give him on the day of Maven’s appointment as an assistant professor. A file that Jacos had failed to deliver until this evening when Maven had been working late in his office. 

“The old man is not useless after all.” Maven muttered, putting the cigarette between his lips. 

He stopped dead as he stared at the face in the document. Her chin-length hair was a messy work to behold. Her lips looked as though one had bitten into them one too many times— likely the possessor. But it was the eyes, the bleak, resentful, yet pitying pair of grey eyes looking up at him through her thin fringe that made him put out his cigarette and abandon the rest of his more important duties. He stared, attempted to emulate her gaze in the mirror. In all his years of feigning humanity, Aleksandra Morozova’s gaze was a singular thing. 

“Irreplicable.” 

  
  
  


Maven’s routine was an easily replicable one. He woke up at five AM every morning, exercised regularly, showered and enjoyed the glory of all his products, shaved, clad his body in the latest and most enviable fashion, and since he was less than an expert in the culinary arts, he headed down to the cafe for a filling breakfast. Every morning, Maven woke to a sense of dread, that he would have to go through the same motions as the day before. 

He made it his mission to avoid the sun that reminded him of the routine and the boredom it instilled in one’s everyday life. It drained life of passion. It helped plants grow, and it aggravated Maven. 

And as he stayed in line, observing the cashier, a young boy of twenty at most, he wondered how easy it would be to invite him for dinner, feed him, then slit open his pale little neck. He imagined it would be easy to run his slender fingers through the boys, brown hair, feel him pull closer as though to seek shelter from the horrors. The delight of knowing someone was making their gravest mistake was euphoric. 

To embrace someone in search of security and find out it is your nightmare you are worshipping with your mouth and touch. 

“That will be six dollars and fifty-nine cents, sir.” The boy said with a respectful smile. Maven’s hopes dwindled. The boy was clearly not interested in men. 

Maven left shortly after handing him the money and a small tip. He had thought of murdering the boy after all. But if he were to be genuine, the most prominent reason behind the tip was the lovely face. 

  
  
  


There was plenty of pleasure to garner from observation. It was one of the reasons why he arrived at the lecture hall before his students did. He liked to dissect their demeanor, mannerisms, and social interactions. He had found that once he had managed to dismantle these three, their psyche was a dish he could gorge on or play with as he saw fit. At least in his head, his fantasies were of the most morbid nature. 

The other reason was that he had been waiting for the infamous social experiment to enter the hall since he had been promoted approximately four months ago. And this morning it seemed, there was one detail, one very small detail, that might rotate this routine and make boredom and under-stimulation dissipate. 

She was a pretty thing. A frail yet potent thing that had changed the game for the world of science and law. The two were not as separate as one might think, or hope for that matter. It was often law that furthered science, integrated it into society instead of condemning it. The way around was just as true. 

Aleksandra was a smart girl. She didn’t attempt to occupy a seat in the back. Instead, she buried one hand inside the pocket of her cedar brown coat, scratched her knee over her grey pants, and sat right in the middle of the hall. A strategic seat. She would be neither the first nor the last to leave. 

But she had made her intentions too clear. She intended to evade him and his attempts at reaching for her. But the imbalance of power favored him. He could call her to his desk whenever he so desired. 

_It’s not you that I’m avoiding._ A clear voice in his mind said, cool and smooth as polished glass. _Don’t look outside the window. One of them is looking at you._

Maven looked at the window and saw nothing there. He glared at the girl. 

_Look at me._ She said. _At me. You know you can’t see them. But they’ll return._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bro im just sitting here, being a thot over these bitches and barely able to write. The first four chapters are going to be sorta short because i want that anticipation. Then shit will get long. And i mean LONG. Also Warner from the shatter me series is here cuz I'm a whore

The thrill of torture was a notion as diverting as it was revolting. A human being bleeding another dry, watching every drop contribute to the draining of the victim’s consciousness and, progressively, consequently, its existence. 

During his decade-long history of abuse, Maven had learned that one needn’t bleed to death to lose consciousness. All it took to die was to disconnect with the preposterous veneer of sympathy. Without conscience, a human was barely such. They were merely a sculpture of veiled flesh and aging bones, none of which made one worthy of the humane consideration they continuously refused to deliver. 

He’d dismissed the class but forty minutes into the lecture. They had grown bold, paper planes flying low over the desks and down the rows, giggles, and snorts following close behind. Through it all, Maven had observed over the rim of his glass from a distance, as though he were a certified stalker. 

He had observed her. He was scrutinizing her at this very moment, wishing he could immerse himself in the thrill of torturing her. But she was not a subject to be poked and mangled as he desired. Maven suspected she shared the exact cruel sentiments. 

Her grey eyes bore a chilling resemblance to clouds, struck by lightning on all fronts. The pale scars on her face, like slight branches swaying in the breeze, were most obtrusive compared to her otherwise unblemished countenance. Her lack of regard was inimitable. 

“Did they brief you concerning your role in the organization prior to your arrival?” He asked, shrugging on his coat. When she nodded, he led them to the exit, opened the door for her. “I’ll be communicating the rest.” 

“I feel sorry for you.” She said. When he glanced down, he caught the imperceptible tilt of her mouth. “They assigned you the role of my mentor for the rest of the year.” 

“You’re mistaken.” Maven said, sliding his pale fingers inside his black leather gloves. “You’re under my supervision for the three years that follow. A word of advice, Aleksandra.” They stepped out into the crisp morning, the thick layers of clothing their sole line of defense. They continued toward his BMW. “Never think I will tolerate any misstep on your part.” 

“They live in your head, you know?”

Maven halted just as he’d unlocked his car. He glanced to see a small, knowing smile on her face. He’d issued a warning, and she’d marked her influence on him. Aleksandra Morozova could cloud his psyche, cloak his judgment in shadows if she so desired. Calmly, he opened the door. 

“Get in.” Was all he said. 

Apparently, the girl needed not to be told twice. She settled calmly in the passenger seat, an obliviousness to her features. He placed the briefcase on the backseat. Taking advantage of her lack of awareness, he lifted his arm to strike her across the face. Before the back of his palm could come down on her cheek, she caught his wrist. 

Almost forgetting his purpose for resorting to violence, he fell back rigidly against his seat and watched her follow his lead, though more relaxed. Her nails dug painfully into his wrist. Blood tinted her the tips of her fingers a fervent crimson. 

“Reduce me to what you see and I’ll reduce you to the horrors you have endured.” She said, releasing his wrist. “There was no more to it than that, sir.” 

Maven should have heeded her warning better. 

  
  
  
  


Maven led her through the dark corridor she would soon grow accustomed to. The walls were caked with mud and the roots hanging low over the ceiling made for a mixture of scents poisonous to one’s lungs. Despite his affinity for all that was gloomy, repugnant, and macabre, Maven had never much fancied the gloominess of this place. 

Meager torches at the end of their lives granted them the necessary, albeit scant, lighting. The heels of their boots slapped audibly against the stone flooring, announcing their arrival before the guards at the very end of the tunnel pushed open the heavy iron door. Maven glanced down at her. 

“Have they dead wronged you, sir?” She said. “I’d think someone with a reputation such as yours would enjoy diminishing them to that state.” 

Silently grateful for his habit of adorning his hands with protective leather, Maven advanced into the balcony below which the head priests of the churches they served argued loudly, and gripped the edge of the balustrade. The disagreements between the many satanic cults their employers and mentors funded were no innovation. For over three years, The Nocte church and that of Oriens had sought dominion over the other. 

They had to know they called no shots. Still, they persisted, they continued to tear each other apart. 

“I enjoy the killing, the company they provide while still fresh.” Maven answered. “Once the matter they were once comprised of has decomposed or been consumed, my curiosity becomes as disingenuous as the intentions of the cult leaders bickering in that circle. Let’s occupy our seats.” 

Once they’d leaned back in the luxurious seats at the very back, Maven subtly pointed out the names of the most prominent characters of their obscure profession. Old man Magnus Schmidt of The Meridies church patted his short silver beard as the rest argued. The slender man of twenty-five at his side, whose climb among the ranks had aroused suspicions throughout the many branches of the organization, glanced Maven’s direction and smiled slyly. 

Without a sliver of doubt, Aleksandra had detected the bright flash in the man’s jade gaze. She must have recognized the way he fixed his expertly combed golden hair. 

“All I know is that you two haven’t claimed each other.” She said. 

Maven grinned without his brain’s permission to do so. “Claimed? You mean  _ fucked _ .”

“I thought you’d try to slap the shit out of me if I was crude.” She said in a low voice. “It may look like he wants you. But I think there’s more to it. There’s a pond of bad blood between the two of you.” 

“Call it… a test.” Maven whispered. “He knows he cannot work to exceed what my blood granted me at birth. Each of our encounters is a test of whoever breaks first. I need not burden myself. But you will see, in a few moments, how unwilling he is to relent.” 

“It sounds like you enjoy this battle of wills.” 

“Maybe I do, Aleksandra.” 

The scene that unfolded was a blemish in the wrinkled surface of sanity. It flattened all variations of rationality and allowed panic to rush out of it with sudden bursts. To a sane mind, such a reaction was the norm. But Maven knew, and Aleksandra knew, that the grinning shadows in his mind had long numbed out the dread, leaving sadistic delight to thrive beneath the deceivingly serene veneer. 

The guards clad in crimson robes dragged the middle-aged man into the room, his ankles and wrists bleeding where the iron scraped flesh. Maven watched with a thin smile on his face. He needed not to glance at Aleksandra to confirm that she was stalking Warner’s every movement. He watched the young man unsheathe his sun-blessed blade. Watched him slice the man’s throat clean and tear out the larynx. 

It was a dreary ordeal, truth be told. The man must have been a singer of a sort, for the instant the larynx touched the gilded platter at the head of the altar a melodious tune began to play. With it, the chorus of cult leaders chanted the words in the antediluvian language of the first worshippers of the devil. 

Warner fell to his knees, painted the sun and the cross in blood before him. A symphony of thunder and nightingale song spilled out like pain from a fresh wound. Just as quickly, it was over. The man’s voice now belonged to another stranger. 

“Funny,” Aleksandra sneered, “The recipient is inside this hall of fanatics.” 

Without tearing his eyes from Warner who combed his bloodied fingers through his aureate hair, he said, “They always come. The organizers allow them to believe they are being stealthy, provide them with the satisfaction of supposed sin, but it is a known fact among those who work here that they are the most animated viewers.” 

“We serve sadists.” She said with a smile Maven could hear. “They’re the funniest of all monsters.” 

Maven rose, brushed his fingertips against the buttons of his coat. 

“You will find that there is more than amusement to torture, Aleksandra.” 

  
  
  
  


“Was it your therapist who advised you to take white wine with chamomile tea?” 

From the moment they’d stepped past the threshold of his penthouse, he’d noticed the exhausted frown on her face. He’d offered her some tea. Instead, she had demanded white wine as well as a generous mug of tea. He’d kept his gaze away from the scars running down her cheeks like molten lightning. 

Attempts, it seemed, were destined to be ever so futile. 

Aleksandra glanced up at him with a cold tilt of her lips. 

“Has your therapist ever offered you alcohol during your many unsuccessful sessions?” She sipped from the sapphire blue mug.He could hear the engines working inside her head, absorbing the pristine interior, the absence of warmth in its decor which consisted mainly of blue, gray, and black. And she appeared vastly elated, in a carefully restrained manner. “Ask nothing of me that you would hate to be demanded from you.” 

Maven grinned, leaned forward with his elbows pressed on the mahogany dinner table. “If you’re going to play in my head, I’m going to play in yours. It’s what we’re good at.” 

“The head of the organization said nothing about my having to divulge my story to you.” 

“He must have failed to mention this particular detail.” Maven said. “It is no uncommon occurrence.” 

After they’d drained their respective mugs of tea, he did what any professor whose lineage went as far back as to the fall of the brightest angel would do. He led her to the basement. 


End file.
